The Sweatshirt
by Ms.M
Summary: it's what you leave behind that leave the most memories. DannyCJ


Disclaimer: Not mine---belongs to NBC, John Wells Productions, and Aaron Sorkin

The Sweatshirt

On the last day, she found his gray hooded sweatshirt in the lost and found. A lost memory left from a time gone by. Not so long ago, but the thought of a time gone by made it seem romantic or perhaps just in the past. For if it was in the past, then there was no way of going back. If it was all in the past, she could only remember what could have been with regret and not with want. Feelings of the past that made one think of words like nostalgia, not words of want. For want and regret are far worse than regret alone. Her eyes glazed over with thoughts of the past, stolen kisses, and long passionate conversations, of gifts received and those almost received, of short talks, of confessions and words, of long pauses in listening and comfort. But he was gone and those times gone as well. She had pushed him away and now he was gone for good. He had wanted to stay and soon she found herself to be right, and yes, it was too much for both of them.  
If only he had stayed away. If only he hadn't made the first move, maybe she wouldn't have found herself getting in so deep. Perhaps she wouldn't have had to end it before it even started. She had had longer and more intimate relationships that over years and time never gave her the same feeling he did. She had met many men who had spoken words reflecting on the idea that they "got her", but never like the man who never said the words and yet did. And never had she been in such a complex relationship as she had with him.  
And still it seemed so simple; so simple if not for the misdirection of fate. And now fate, cruel as it can be, was reminding her of things gone by, the road not taken and decisions that one makes. If it had been a different time and they had been different people then perhaps they would have met and not grazed next to each other in the fog; ships in the night.  
Later that night, at home, she found herself smelling the sweatshirt. It still had his smell after almost three years. How did it do that, she wondered? Next thing she knew, she had slipped the warm gray sweatshirt on, feeling it against her bare skin.  
She woke up not remembering when she fell asleep surrounded by mementos of their past together and apart. She finally felt that feeling of want and regret that she had held in for so long. They could be together now, but he was probably married. He was sure to have found someone. "Perhaps he had kids," she bemused. She shook off the thought. She would have heard through the grapevine of friends between them, the grapevine of the small world they all lived in, the fishbowl, about that one. The same if he was married, but he was sure to have found someone. Of course, to the real world, they were only past friends. She wasn't an ex-girlfriend or an ex-wife; perhaps no one would care to tell her. Or perhaps they all knew and they were afraid to tell her. Tell her he hadn't waited. Tell her he hadn't waited for her like she had hoped deep down inside he would.  
Suddenly, a few weeks before, she remembered it was almost time, and even though it had been three years since she last saw him, she kept the count down in her head. Not to the last day of work, the last day of school, but the last day 'till she would see him. She half expected him to walk into her empty room and find her on that last day, but all that remained of him in that room, and in her bed tonight, was his college sweatshirt.  
She was becoming one of those female clichés, clinging to an article of his clothing to keep him close. But yet she was. You can think all your thoughts and go through all your actions and yet in the end biology wins out. It always does as the seeds of chemicals change your chemistry like hot flashes. Why take the change on the unknown? When it's not the right time. When it's right, it's right and there would be other men. What were the odds he was the right one and there would be no more. It's not about the man, it's not about being alone or having someone to depend on. It's about that other person you can't get enough of. For one person, it could be caffeine, another chocolate, but the one universal addiction of all mankind is the closeness of another human being; that bond of living life. And no matter how much you say you don't need it and you're living life fine without it; you miss it. And it seemed she had indeed missed it.  
She took a breath to take her out of her first-wake state when her doorbell ran. Her naked feet hit the wood floor with a bang, as the apartment below her knew from each step her destination, as her footsteps echoed below her. She opened the door without looking out, half expecting she already knew who was on the other side of the door, old co-workers she'd rather not see at the moment. Her instincts were completely off, forgetting that she was still wearing the sweatshirt, as she opened the door in shock. And what a look on his face, when she opened the door, seeing her wearing the sweatshirt and knowing that any doubts he had whether she still wanted him were dashed to pieces.


End file.
